A Child Among Titans
by Reinart
Summary: AU:The Order, the Purebloods and the Ministry are all vying for political power. Among such immense and influential entities, how will Harry fare? The Wizarding world is evolving, yet it is difficult to see which pieces are the black, and which the white.
1. Prologue Part I

**Disclaimer:** _In sooth I claim not the Rowlinged works of Parry Hotter._

**A Child Among Titans**

**Prologue: Part I**

**_1980_**

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat lumpenly in his excessively gilded chair. As per usual, his attire consisted of violently garish robes – rancid yellow with miniature unicorns cavorting coquettishly around the hem – which clashed rather nastily with his pointed purple boots.

The epitome of fashion and taste he was not. His piercing blue eyes twinkled menacingly, and his beard twitched with his quiet mutterings as he frantically poked at a pair of his spindly silver instruments.

A large, doleful looking phoenix squatted morosely upon a delicately crafted perch, its tail feathers elegantly sweeping the floor. Tilting its scarlet flecked head, it peered beadily at Dumbledore, observing his dastardly shenanigans. The ancient Headmaster continued to mutter and prod, squinting though his half-moon spectacles.

The occasional word could be picked out before it became lost in the labyrinthine fuzz of his beard – "Trelawney... Butterbeer... Hogs... _Aberforth_" and emphatically, accompanied with a particularly vehement prod, a muttered "_Stop_ that you obnoxious dunderhead!" Fawkes seemed to sag wearily, a perplexed crinkle above his beak.

There came a sharp knock at the door.

Dumbledore paused abruptly, and in one smooth motion, he swiftly drew out an enormous silken handkerchief from his breast pocket, and spread it gently over the quivering instruments. With one gnarled and wrinkled finger, he poked his glasses further up the crooked bridge of his nose, and hurriedly brushed down his robes.

Leaning back casually, he gripped the armrests of his ostentatious chair, and called out – not quaveringly as one might expect from such an old man – but clearly and strongly. "Enter" he declared.

The heavy door sighed a melancholy creak as it swung open to admit the man to the office. The occupants of the many portraits dotted about upon the panelled walls leaned forwards interestedly. The deceased Headmistresses – and a not inconsiderable number of the old Headmasters – assumed would-be seductive expressions, and a sudden wave of rushed primping quivered the scenes depicted within the various frames. Phineas Nigellus Black waggled his eyebrows lasciviously, and Armando Dippet blushed coyly.

Dumbledore frowned, "Good evening, Tom."

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Head of Slytherin House, and esteemed Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, stood silhouetted against the doorway. Elegantly, he rested a hand on the frame, his dark robes cascading richly around his tall and narrow frame.

He paused for a moment, intense eyes briefly settling upon Dumbledore's attire, a faint sneer beginning to twist his mouth before he schooled his expression to one of supreme indifference, and stepped languidly into the office. Dumbledore's prancing unicorns suddenly froze, glared in Tom's direction, and hissed malevolently.

The door grumbled to a close.

Albus smiled benignly, and gestured for Tom to sit down. The chair was considerably smaller, uglier, and more uncomfortable than Dumbledore's gilded monstrosity – _so __subtle_, these delicate power politics – yet Tom returned Dumbledore's smile with an utterly charming one of his own, unwittingly inducing a sudden intense bout of eyelash batting from Dippet.

He inclined his head towards the chair, and with a murmured "By your leave, Headmaster..." he flicked his wand in a rapid figure of eight movement, and transfigured the stubby little chair into an immense, luxurious affair – green velvet and mahogany, with silver inlays.

Emitting a soft, deliberate sigh of satisfaction, Professor Riddle sank languorously into his, well, _throne_, and graced the Headmaster with an innocent blink.

He tapped the chair, and added, somewhat unnecessarily, "It's for my _terrible_ back problems."

Dumbledore peered at him frostily, "Is that so?"

"Indeed. Also, rather unfortunately, an immensely large and unsightly boil has decided to befriend my left buttock, and is exceedingly vehement in propagating its festering throbbing pulsations and sporadic expulsions of the most _disgusting_ sticky yellow-"

"Fascinating", the Headmaster interrupted loudly. "I do hope that the pain isn't too excruciating. Incidentally, Madame Pomfrey has a most excellent salve – it's pink and rather delicious smelling – that is quite wonderful for slathering upon buttocky ailments. Once I had these _terrible_ warts that congregated rather enthusiastically around my scrot-"

"At approximately the time you knew Grindelwald, I presume?" Tom murmured politely, his gaze momentarily caught by a diaphanous silken handkerchief that rippled haltingly upon Dumbledore's desk.

The Headmaster's left eyelid twitched a minute fraction, yet his expression remained pleasantly open. He paused, furrowing his brow thoughtfully, "Actually, I do believe that it occurred when Hagrid became Groundskeeper here."

Tom's smile became rather fixed.

Dumbledore's mouth pursed musingly upon further reflection, "Or it may have been when dear Filius and I indulged in _passionate_-"

"As enthralled as I may be to hear you expound upon your diseased and dissolute youth, Headmaster, I must admit that I am rather at loss - you have, ah, quite neglected to elucidate your motives behind summoning me to your office so arbitrarily."

Petulantly, Dumbledore compressed his lips, yet a faint glint of smug satisfaction glimmered faintly and briefly in his eyes. "I do apologise, my dear boy, you are correct, I have been remiss in my obligations towards you", he said softly. "However, you wound me deeply with the word "motives". Do you think so little of your old Transfiguration teacher that you would accuse him of something sinister and ulterior, when he may have wished only to engage in a long overdue chinwag?"

"I hardly think that you are one to indulge in idle chatter, Dumbledore", Tom insinuated tautly, his voice clipped and cultured.

The Headmaster allowed his features to crumple into an expression of unwarranted hurt, "Upon the contrary, dear chap, upon the contrary" He leaned forwards seriously, his eyes flashing grimly, "But since you are here, Tom, I have something very pressing that I wish to ask you..."

"Sherbet Lemon?"

**_S_**

With an outward demeanour of impenetrable calm, Tom exited the Headmaster's office, and lingered upon the landing until the door had ground shut. Then, with sweeping wand strokes, he rapidly Disillusioned himself and cast a powerful eavesdropping spell upon his ears. The insufferable old codger was certainly up to something, and what's more, it was rather glaringly obvious that he wanted Tom to find out.

He gave an internal snort at the memory of the innocently fluttering handkerchief. Of course, it just _happened_ to be poking upwards in mysterious places; it would be ever so foolish to surmise that it might, actually, be deliberately 'concealing' something. Specifically, that 'something' being two of Dumbledore's spindly instruments, which, Tom noticed, had clandestinely disappeared from their usual places.

What on earth was the desiccated old fart up to?

Dumbledore's mumblings floated mutedly to his ears, "Trelawney... Butterbeer... Hogs... _Aberforth._" accompanied by a soft puffing and tinkling noise, presumably from the silverware – although, Tom wouldn't have put it past Dumbledore's gargantuan and suspiciously extensive beard.

Cursorily cancelling the eavesdropping charm, Professor Riddle stood upon the first step of the revolving staircase, compressing his lips in distaste as the excessively gilded imitation phoenix rotated steadily, gradually lowering Tom to the entrance concealed behind two particularly hideous gargoyles.

_Tasteless_.

His mind working quickly, rapidly weighing the various possibilities and alternatives associated with Dumbledore's words, Tom decided to instruct an underling to keep an ear to the ground, in an attempt to shed further illumination upon the Headmaster's convoluted plots.

He knew precisely the person to use.

_**S**_

Easily maintaining the Disillusionment charm, the Professor strode unhurriedly into the murkier depths of thecastle, descending several capriciously moving staircases, and stepping through the murky gloom of the damper corridors until he eventually reached the dungeons. He paused outside a distinctly unimpressive door, and rapped sharply upon the small, yellowed glass pane.

The door swung open almost immediately to reveal a slim, sallow skinned young man with raven hair - tinged with the faint sheen of grease peculiar to the prolonged exposure to potions fumes - framing his narrow face. His black, expressionless eyes surveyed the Slytherin Head of House briefly, before his head lowered deferentially as he stepped back from the door to let the Professor enter.

Briskly, Tom entered, and wandlessly shut the door behind him. With a subtle hand gesture, he caused the lock to click ominously. He turned to meet the man's eyes.

"Good evening, Professor Prince"

Prince averted his gaze and stared at his feet, "Good evening my L-Professor Riddle"

"Severus", Tom murmured sibilantly, mildly reproving, yet lazily surveying the delicate angles of the man's face. Languidly, he stretched out a pale hand, and gripped the Potioneer's chin with his long, cold fingers, his knuckles carelessly brushing the man's neck as he did so.

Unconscious of his reaction, Severus shivered, the subtle movement immediately caught by Tom's sharp eyes.

A mocking smile curved his lips, and he couldn't resist inserting a jibe, "What were you about to say, little Severus? My love? My leg? My-" here Tom batted his eyelashes, "- lascivious _desires_?"

He wrenched the man's jaw upwards, until the unfathomable eyes flickered unwillingly to meet Tom's. With a rapidly thought _Legilimens_, Tom pierced the mind of the young Potions Master, casually flitting past the Occlumency barriers, and brutally projecting one spearing, demanding word.

_Wards?_

Severus nodded with difficulty, his dark eyes fluttering furiously as he tried to dispel the few pain-induced tears that had welled wetly onto his cheeks upon the violation of his mind.

Satisfied, Tom relinquished his pinching grip, and savagely forced his mind from Severus'. He then proceeded to hijack the Potioneer's office chair, one elegant leg languishing over the armrest. His eyes travelled boredly around the dingy room, occasionally resting interestedly upon the occasional jar that captured his attention.

One jar contained an oozing slimy object, which was suspended somewhat morbidly within a pulsing, translucent gel – it vaguely resembled a deformed foetus, its tiny limbs malformed and twisted, and its eyes reminiscent of engorged frogspawn.

Tom smiled lightly, "I commend you on your distinctly cheery taste in decor, Severus"

There was no response, other than a rasping cough, as the Potions Master struggled to wrest some breath back into his lungs. A moist, dribbling strand of blood trickled stagnantly onto the flagstoned floor, originating from the corner of his mouth.

The sickly sound caught Tom's attention, and he peered idly towards the crumpled form of the young man. The startling crimson of the blood secured his gaze, and fascinated, he slid swiftly off of the chair, and crouched next to the ungainly body sprawled inelegantly upon the floor.

Slowly, indolently, he extended a white, tapered finger, and dipped it into the shallow pool of scarlet liquid. He examined it raptly, mirroring crimson flecks tainting the deep blue of his eyes.

Thoughtfully, he tasted the bloody tip of his finger.

A faint hint of revulsion, mixed with fascination, trembled across Severus' pale visage.

Holding Severus' gaze, Tom, with a subversive glee, slowly traced his lips with his tongue. Then, a wet film of saliva tinged with blood still clinging moistly to his fingertip, he reached forwards, and patronisingly patted the young man's head.

"Poor Severus", he murmured pityingly, gently running his fingers through the glistening black hair. He stroked his head rhythmically, as one might do to a pet cat, causing Severus' wary and tense expression to gradually become more relaxed. Then, with a soft, gorgeously charming smile, that induced Severus to respond with a hesitant smile of his own, Tom wound a strand of inky hair around his fingers, and gave a vicious, spiteful tug.

Severus' face tautened in surprised pain, and an ugly flush of humiliation mottled his cheeks. His lips thinned, and his eyes flashed woundedly. Determined not to appear vulnerable, he made as though to stand up, his back tense and rigid.

An insistent weight kept him down. Tom threw him a sweet smile.

"Sit", he commanded, his voice resonating throughout the stuffy room, and tainted with a gently cloying undertone. His eyes glimmered strangely in the half-light of the gloomy office.

Severus had no choice but to comply, his hands shaking slightly. The Dark Lord was clearly displeased with something, and by Merlin, it seemed as though he was going to be the recipient of his Lord's sadistic fury – Gods, and he'd thought that his position was secure, as Riddle's prime informant at Hogwarts, and what with his contacts in the less savoury divisions of Wizarding society and his unparalleled mastery in Potions and he was babbling wasn't he and by Morgana's lactating tits was that his wand, oh _shi_-

Rather arbitrarily, Tom's eyes dulled, the glimmer of gleeful madness dampening, as, bored by his previous sequence of actions, he abruptly turned away. Standing with his back to the shivering Potions Master, he rapidly and monotonously outlined the events as they occurred in Dumbledore's office, summarily explaining the various conclusions that he had drawn.

Severus' heart thrummed rapidly in his chest, and his lungs seemed to be strangely airless. Internally, he struggled to comprehend his Lord's bewildering, flickering array of moods, but failed dismally. Clamping down upon his emotions with his Occlumency shields, he attempted to contain himself, so as to pay attention to Riddle's words.

Eventually, Riddle lapsed into silence, and deigned to resume his seat behind Severus' desk. His eyes were cold, and surveyed the Potioneer flatly.

Severus' stomach cramped and twisted nervously within his grimy, potions-laboratory robes. How he abhorred this quavering uncertainty. Oh _hellebore_, he was well acquainted with this chain of moods, from the innumerable Death Eater meetings he had frequented in the past. Loathing uncontrollable outbursts of emotion as a rule, the Dark Lord nonetheless would occasionally experience, well, _moments_, whereby he would become particularly ... unpredictable.

Thereafter, he would degenerate into an icily silent monument of taciturnity. Only - the Dark Lord's temporary cold solemnity threatened the average bystander considerably more in terms of lethal repercussions, than the average sulky grumps.

_Gargantuan __festering __turds__ in__ a__ cauldron_, Severus thought emphatically.

"Severus", Tom murmured, his eyes hooded, and his large hands delicately caressing his wand.

The young Potions Master observed the Dark Lord warily, "Yes, my Lord?" he intoned tentatively.

"Pay a visit to your unsavoury little Mudblooded friends, won't you? Interrogate them. I wish to learn the reason behind Dumbledore's erratic conniving. I particularly suggest that you offer that dirty hound Mundungus Fletcher a sufficient _incentive_ to babble – as he associates with the Bloodtraitor, and _distinguished_ member of the Order of the Flailing Duck, Arthur Weasley, rather frequently does he not?"

Severus nodded rapidly in assent.

An idle smile played gently upon Tom's sculpted lips, a frightening contrast to his flat, humourless eyes. "Off you trot then, my dear little Potions Master" he drawled softly, inclining his head towards the door.

Severus paused uncertainly.

Tom lazily arched an eyebrow, seemingly nonchalant, yet his eyes maintained their hard veneer. "Is there something amiss?" he inquired coolly.

Severus opened his mouth to respond, yet the words somehow became garbled and petered out incoherently. Clearing his throat rapidly, he quelled the rising heat in his cheeks, and began again – slowly.

"Ah – may I just retrieve my travelling cloak from, er, f-from the back of your chair, my Lord?"

The Dark Lord smiled wolfishly, and sinuously twisted his body so that his legs were draped over one of the armrests, and his back was resting against the other.

"By all means" he purred, entwining a lithe arm around the back of the chair, clasping it in a loose embrace.

Severus approached the elegantly reclining Dark Lord as he would a venomous Runespoor; he never knew which of the three heads – or in his Lord's case, the various _personalities_ - would strike. Angrily attempting to dismiss his nerves, he stepped closer to the Professor, and –

Tom gazed at the wall blandly.

– attempted to gently tug his cloak free from under the Dark Lord's arm.

In his peripheral vision, Tom noted the faint glister of perspiration pulsing from Severus' pores, pasting a damp layer upon his somewhat oily forehead. His pulse was visible, jumping nervously in his throat, and his Adams apple jiggled nervously each time he swallowed. A faint, yet clearly tangible scent of sweat wafted unpleasantly from his moist armpits, and his robes – like his hair – were coated in a thin film of potions grease. A brown crust of dried blood lurked unappealingly in the corner of his mouth.

Tom tensely, yet imperceptibly, held his body away from the direct vicinity of his pungent Potions Master, his aristocratic nose crinkled slightly in fastidious disgust. He resisted the impulse to cast a rapid _Scourgify. _He immediately dismissed any notions involving Severus' seduction – he was just _too_ unclean. Not to mention the furore that would grip Pureblood society if it was discovered – as it inevitably would – that their darkly handsome prospective leader, heir to Salazar Slytherin himself, was fornicating with smelly Halfbloods.

At least _Lucius_ washed his hair regularly.

Unable to bear the sweaty proximity any longer, Tom slid gracefully off of the chair, and stepped briskly to the door.

Severus stared at him dumbly, awkwardly clutching his bat-like cloak, and his large nose crinkling perplexedly.

Tom would have to see that the silly man attended some etiquette classes, that gawping expression was immensely unattractive.

So _uncouth_.

He gave a merry wave of his hand, just to elicit a dumbstruck expression from the Potions Master, and purred some parting words over his shoulder, "Adieu, my slithery friend – creep well!"

**_S_**

A deep sense of forbidding anticipation roiled in his stomach, as he watched his Lord stride off, the usual impenetrable mask clamping down upon his unfairly handsome features. Mad he was, indubitably, yet it was the sociopathic capriciousness that made him so appealing – if, that is, one had a certain proclivity for adrenaline induced thrills. Also, that sense of unadulterated _power_ that enforced and accompanied his presence was unequivocally intoxicating. Severus was utterly _bewitched_ by that raw, untempered potential that all but thrummed around the formidable – man?

_No, far greater than a mere man._

_A__ merman?_He suppressed an irreverent smirk. He imagined the Dark Lord standing seriously before his swooning following of Purebloods, a grave expression encroaching upon the sly half smile he usually wore. An intense, profound pause, the old family patriarchs observing his Lord solemnly, then, breathily - "_I__'__m __a__ mermaid_"

He wouldn't put it past the Dark Lord to do such a thing in one of his dangerous bouts of whimsicality, either. That seemed to be a rather peculiar trend among Dark Lords – the particularly powerful ones even secured places in the local mythology. Loki the Trickster was the first who sprang to mind. Essentially, trickery seemed to be associated with rather, well, _Dark_ and destructive forces.

_Slytherinesque_.

Unconsciously, Severus placed a hand over his dizzily fluttering heart.

_That he is mad, 'tis true, 'tis true, 'tis pity, and pity, 'tis, 'tis true, a foolish –_

He did _not_ just quote a Muggle text. Besides, Severus was no Polonius – he was no greasy crawling sycophant sliming with servility!

Oh wait.

_Hellebore_.

**_S_**

Arthur Weasley, Ministry employee, ginger, and resolutely courageous Dumbledore supporter, ambled furtively along one of the more unsavoury backstreets of Diagon Alley. His scruffy cloak was drawn tightly around his narrow body, and his voluminous hood concealed most of his face. His steps seemed eager, yet slightly hesitant, and his head swivelled frequently as if searching for something – or someone.

A narrow cul de sac extending secretively to the left of yet another secluded alleyway caught his roaming attention. Unobtrusively, he attempted to ascertain if there were any dodgy figures loitering about in the gloom, squinting his pale, blue eyes with a vigorous, concentrated intensity – when a grubby hand snatched his ankle.

"_Globbering__ lobalugs_!" Arthur yelped vehemently, violently whipping out his wand.

What he had initially taken for a pile of mouldy old rags quivered turbulently. It snatched its hand back rapidly, and burrowed it into the depths of the immense, tattered robes. A petulant voice whinged mournfully from the recesses of a gargantuan, baggy hood.

"'Ere Arfur, you nearly took my sodding 'and orf, you blarsted ginger prat"

Arthur's tense and startled expression slackened into that of an acute relief.

"_There_ you are Dung, you old scoundrel" he rejoined somewhat irritably. "D'you think that you could, er, bloody well refrain from pulling that stunt again?"

The unkempt bundle belched moistly in response, which Arthur diplomatically decided to take as an affirmative. Then, with a rolling, wriggling wave of movement, a head emerged blearily from the mass of material. It – or rather _he_ – blinked stickily.

"Cor", he muttered, surveying Arthur with an unfocused, bloodshot stare. "You look rough. Molly bin ragging you or summink?"

The Weasley patriarch smoothed down his robes somewhat self consciously, "No no, nothing of the sort, old boy, merely the usual fuss at the Ministry. The moneyed Purebloods are apparently forming their own political party, as a retaliation against Dumbledore's pro-Muggle Order. The old conflict between cultural traditions, and modernisation it seems. It's all distinctly tense, especially with the Malfoys-"

Mundungus Fletcher grunted plaintively, "Aaaaaarfur", he moaned. "It's too blimmin' early for this". He scrubbed at his eyes reluctantly. "'s'long as it don' affect me none, I don' bother finking abaht it" He tapped his head wisely. "Got ter keep some space for the important fings in life, yeh know"

Arthur made a noncommittal noise.

"Anyway", Dung interjected, grumpily slouching into a seating position, his back pressed against a battered vanishing bin, "Glad yer got my owl. Was beginnin' to fink you wasn't comin'. I 'ave some new bits and bobs in my mokeskin if you want ter – jus' a sec'"

He rummaged in a small, hairy brown pouch, and began to draw out disproportionately large objects.

Arthur's eyes widened in excitement as a particular object caught his eye. He reached out to examine it, a grin expanding goofily across his face.

"A genuine cluckoo cock!" he murmured, fascinated.

Mundungus shifted smugly, a fat smirk curving his blubbery lips. "Abs'lutely genwin", he agreed. He continued to withdraw items from his bag, including some strange pieces of metal, and odd shapes of rubber.

He leaned forward conspiratorially, sniffing violently to attract Arthur's attention. Once it was gained, he pointed to the series of metal bits spread out upon the grubby pavement. Arthur sucked in his breath, his eyes transfixed.

"Is that...Are they...?" he began softly.

Dung nodded importantly. "All you 'ave to do is fix the bits together – prob'ly even manage it with a _Reparo_"

"Bisexual parts", Arthur breathed excitedly. He paused, as though struck by something, and looked around. "But where are the wheels?"

Dung pointed brusquely to the circles of floppy, ridged rubber, and then to a roughly "T" shaped piece of metal, "Them's the ham bars"

Arthur shot him a superior look, "They're _handlebars_ Dung. You use them to steer when you ride the bisexual."

Dung shrugged, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, "Yeah yeah. Arfur – I don' give a monkey's micky"

Arthur blinked rather sadly. "Oh", he murmured, clutching the wheels tightly to his chest.

Dung snorted loudly and wetly, and hawked into his sleeve, "So... 5 Galleons for the lot?"

Arthur just looked at him. He pointed to the large purple "M" embroidered upon the front of his shabby robes. "Need I remind you that _I_ am the head of the Misuse of Magical Artefacts Dung? You _know _that it is only through my discretion that the Aurors turn a blind eye to your little Muggle artefact smuggling practice. If they ever found out that you were peddling this stuff in _Knockturn_-"

Dung blanched.

"Well, Malfoy would probably get you sent to _Azkab-__"_

Mundungus scowled mutinously, "Yeah, bu' like you said, tha's a sodding bisexual, tha' is. It's worf a pretty penny – and the cock is bloomin' mech-mechan - well s'not eklectric. So there's no need to _blackmail_ me Arfur"

Arthur's eyes narrowed, "Fine. 2 galleons – but not a knut _more_, or Scrimgeour _will_ hear of your shenanigans"

"Alrigh' alrigh'" Dung whined plaintively, "Bu' I 'ave to earn my living some'ow, don' I? 'Ow's Dumbledore getting on these days anyway – the ole codger 'elped me out several times before, 'ee did. Woss 'ee up ter?"

It struck Arthur as being rather odd that Mundungus neglected to haggle, but ascribing it to his dastardly manipulative skills, he smugly gathered up his new purchases. Carefully, he shrunk them with his wand, and placed them into a hairy little mokeskin pouch similar to Dung's, except that Arthur's was a luminous orange. He flashed Dung a satisfied smile, and flicked him two fat golden coins. Dung snatched them out of the air, bit each one, and then squirreled them away into his pouch.

Arthur dropped his voice, "Well, apparently he's looking for a new Divination teacher for Hogwarts – d'you remember Professor Feicim? The fat Irish bloke-? Yeah, well, he's retiring, but he doesn't want anyone to know yet, and _apparently _– don't mention this to anybody now Dung old chap – Albus is interviewing that Trelawney one. Awful old hag she is, d'you remember the time she was in the Prophet for fraud? Feeding false prophecies to the Ministry or something. Anyway, Dumbledore's meeting her in the Hogshead – the _Hogshead _of all places! – for an interview next Saturday. Dunno why he'd bother hiring that nutcase, Malfoy would hit the _roof_-"

Happily launching into a bout of vigorous gossiping, Arthur completely neglected to notice the rippling patch of shimmering air that hovered menacingly behind the vanishing bin, or the faint, yellow-tinged glassiness of Mundungus' eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: _So_, this is my first fanscribble - I just decided to do it on a whim upon a proverbial boot in the derriere from the wonderful Moth Gypsy. I would gladly appreciate it if you took the time to review, as I'm slightly apprehensive about your prospective opinions (I'm being arrogant enough to assume that you actually _read_ it).**

**_Tally ho chaps!_**

**Reinart**


	2. Prologue Part II

**A/N:**Thank you for the reviews, the alerts, and favourites! I just edited the beginning of the previous chapter, just by dividing the paragraphs a bit, to make the slew of adjectives more legible. There is no change to the content, however.

There will be some "funny" bits throughout the story – but I always think of Tom as having this fantastic streak of sadistic humour anyway. Besides, a violent concentration of earnest angst always makes me want to interject with silly comments.

A lot of this chapter is going to be "Legilimens-ised", and in italics, and there will be several light hearted scenes. After this second (and last) section of the Prologue, the actual story begins – and we meet Harry properly! The tone will become more serious, then. Tom will be madder, and Severus more jaded.

Be sure to **review**, it keeps me going – and it will most likely induce me to update more quickly. This is my first time writing a story that is not related to school work, you see.

**Disclaimer:**_ In __sooth__ I __own__ not __the__ Rowlinged__ works__ of__ Parry__Hotter._

**A Child Among Titans**

**Prologue: Part II**

**1980**

**S**

"-and that is one of the predominant reasons as to why _Werewolves,_ or rather the affliction of _Lycanthropy,_ is such an inherent taboo in Wizarding Society", Tom purred, his navy eyes intently surveying the rows of students before him. He reached for the heavy textbook that lounged upon his Makassar desk, pausing only to blow gently at the delicate coating of dust layering the pristine leather binding.

The particles of dust meandered upwards, were whimsically danced about by an updraft, and weaved merrily through the capacious rib cage of the immense skeleton – from a rather small Welsh Green – that stretched across the vaulted ceiling of the classroom. The bones gleamed, and appeared starkly white and polished in the vibrant arcs of light that lanced warmly through the windows.

A rather ugly Gryffindor girl brandished her hand insistently.

Tom smiled mechanically, and nodded courteously towards her, "Yes Miss Womble?"

She shifted primly in her seat, her mouth pursing prissily, coyly fiddling with a violently pink quill upon her desk. "So, like, how do we know if someone's a werewolf, when it's not the full moon?"

Tom's lips thinned imperceptibly, the textbook clenched loosely in his left hand. "I reiterate, Miss Womble, that there is an extensive variety of spells, and quite an array of potions one could utilise in order to elucidate the-"

She interrupted rudely, "But I mean, just by looking at 'em"

"Then", Tom murmured softly, a warning undertone to his words. "I would suggest that you look for a faint discoloration of teeth, a certain elongation of the canines, a faint glimmer of gold in the iris perhaps – but of course, as with all such _Muggle_ methods, that is indubitably a most incompetent and lackadaisical procedure-"

Appreciative chuckles rippled from the Slytherin side of the room, and several Gryffindors grinned despite themselves.

"-that would most likely cause grave insult if you so happened to accuse an untainted witch or wizard" he finished coldly, his eyes piercing her mercilessly.

She ducked her head quickly, pink stains of embarrassment spreading inexorably across her face.

_Aah – she matches her quill. _

"I suppose", Tom added musingly, his face impenetrably blank, "that upon lacking the cognitive capacity required to _perform_ such spells, you could merely politely inquire as to whether they suffer from a particularly _heavy_ time of the month"

The respectful silence permeating the classroom degenerated into a cacophony of disbelieving splutters. 

**S**

A slightly smug look squatting upon his face, Severus lurked somewhat tiredly near the entrance to Knockturn Alley. He had long since exchanged his murky travelling cloak for something more dapper from his flat in the depths of Knockturn, but only a glamour could conceal the weariness etched into his visage – and it was considered poor etiquette to apply one in public, unless, of course, you happened to be _advertising __your__ services._

Which Severus was_ not_.

Besides, he thought that the heavy purple crescents imprinted beneath his eyes gave him a distinctly mysterious look – sort of, _pale_ and _interesting_. He attempted to strike a grimly purposeful pose, tensing his shoulders, and letting a strand of hair fall enigmatically into his eyes. Through the fringe of his eyelashes, he peered interestedly and hopefully, as a pretty witch, dressed in well cut and flattering robes, glided past.

Despite his strenuous efforts to project an aura of mystique, he nonetheless continued to resemble a faintly awkward and skinny bat.

He made as though to clench his fist darkly and steadfastly within the pocket of his robes – an indication that he was willing to whip out his wand at the slightest hint of dastardly provocation – and promptly had his arm knocked into by a passing wizard. An Auror judging by his appearance, a tall muscular fellow with chiselled features, and rich robes of Ministry purple.

Two spots of colour flared upon Severus' cheeks, "Sorry", he muttered embarrassedly, shuffling his gangly frame out of the way.

The Auror spared him a cursory, dismissive nod, before swiftly striding on, people automatically moving out of his way.

A flare of resentment smouldered sullenly in his stomach, and a sour frown pinched his angular features, eyebrows beetling to form a sharp V of irritation as he stared malevolently at the receding back of the Auror.

He gritted his teeth into a snarl, a bitter curl twisting his lip. How _dare_ he knock into Severus in such a boorish manner?

He, Severus Prince, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Prince, youngest Potions Master ever to be employed at Hogwarts, and invaluable _assistant_ to the up-and-coming Dark Lord of the Wizarding National Party ("_Magic__ is__ Might_"), competent performer of every single one of the Unforgivables, innovative Spellsmith of painful curses – why, he could have that ignorant nobody writhing upon the ground in incomparable agony in _seconds_, how _dare_ he dismiss Severus so –

His black eyes glinted with a wounded outrage, and his hand fisted ominously in the left pocket of his fashionable robes. He gripped the few remaining sickles tightly, and darkly, he resolved to procure a tumbler of comforting, soothing Firewhiskey.

He wasn't due back at Hogwarts for another hour or so, and, thanks to his recently inherited fortune, he could afford the luxury of splurging upon a rejuvenating jolt of Ogden's finest.

**S**

Tom was sipping mildly from a fragile fluted glass of Bibble's Best Bubbly, when Severus came flapping earnestly through the portrait aperture. The portrait, which concealed the entrance to the Slytherin Head of House's opulent quarters, was of a young occamy with delicate silver plumes, and a perpetually anxious expression. Tom was actually rather fond of it, and conversed with the peculiar creature in Parseltongue from time to time.

He also dictated that the password be in Parseltongue, as it amused him to hear the occamy irritably criticise Severus' terrible pronunciation, and continually refer to the Potioneer as "the Nose" – as well as other consistently derogatory terms.

Severus stood before him, a nervous yet excited expression fluttering his angular facial features. Tom surveyed him anticipatorily, and although the young Potions Master fidgeted nervously underneath his raking gaze, he resolutely stood his ground.

A surge of warmth inflated Tom's chest at the sight of his – _follower_.

His tool.

He seemed to be starkly out of place, in this elegant mixture of an office and a lounge, his ungainly limbs at odds with the regular tasteful furniture, and his pasty complexion appearing distinctly sickly compared to the rich brown of the mahogany panelling.

Tom's expression twisted in distaste, the alcohol murmuring in his blood, seductively whispering to him to _lower__ his __inhibitions_, and, almost angrily, he flicked his wand in Severus' direction with an emphatically thought _Scourgify_; he could almost taste the thick pungent scent of warm body, and it revolted him, sickened him-

_Scourgify!_

Severus gaped in shock as an intense rasping, scrubbing sensation rubbed coarsely against his skin, his face felt as though it was being pulled apart by some immense vacuum, a perforating wind pierced his clothes, and his lips tingled in agony as dry skin was ripped from the surface layer by some sort of invisible, stiff brush.

Tom observed him curiously, a glimmer of satisfaction curling his lips, and with another rapid twirl of his wand, he cancelled the spell.

"There, there, isn't that an improvement?", he murmured, pleased, a triumphant euphoria glimmering maniacally in his eyes.

Severus stared wildly at Tom, utterly perplexed, and frightened to touch his face in case his fingers came away with crimson blood smeared upon the tips, his breath coming in great gasps as his lungs expanded, contracted, expanded, contracted-

A familiar sense of _nausea_ gripped Tom, the aghast disgust winding sinuously in his gut, yet an almighty rush of almost intoxication jolted his mind, and he sprang to his feet, his tall frame quivering with suppressed tension, and a tangible crackling of magic dancing hyperactively upon his skin.

He stared as the rasping, puffing, seizing mechanism of the human's body continued, a cloying decomposing organism, that as it rotted, struggled to stuff itself with enough of that element _air_ so as to decay a little longer, each breath but a morbid attempt at extending the _life__ – _life in death – of that sack of flesh, that greasy flabby construction that claimed to have a mind, that claimed to be of the same calibre as _he_, Lord Voldemort –

"What _rot!_", Tom exclaimed delightedly, circling the heaving, pasty creature detachedly, his eyes stretched wide and brimming with a terrifying intensity. It wheezed in fear, and he laughed at it, throwing back his head, peals of high, cold laughter bubbling sharply from his stomach.

His shoulders shivered violently, and his hair stood on end, his magic was thrumming, he was _omnipotent._

His limbs moved as though they were filled with sand, heavy and immense, as he plod plod plodded –

_The word plod! It's – hysterical!_

He could do anything – anything! Tom clicked his fingers, deliberately, engrossed, _appalled_.

_Snap snap snap._

Tom's mind stretched weirdly, seemingly elasticised, stretching continuously, the strand in the middle becoming ever more tenuous, ever diminishing in density until-

_Snip!_

And he was doubled over, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he hacked with hysterical, terrible laughter, revulsion, disgust, yet finding everything so utterly hilariously _absurd-_

A welling of horror rising inexorably from his gut, he had lost it – lost what? _Yes __lost __what, __Tommy__ Tom__ Tom __Tommy __Tom__ Tom __Tom_, the voices sang.

Control! _We__ don__'__t__ like __that!__ We__ don__'__t__ we__ don__'__t__ we __don__'__t-_

The Nose is staring at us. _Make__ it __stop __make__ it __stop-_

Its face seemed to be turned constantly in their direction, no matter where they moved, its blank whiteness insistently staring, _staring,__ staring!_

Their magic swelled, and throbbed, undulating electrically, sinuously embracing their limbs and filling them with this immense sense of utter, _hilarious_-

_Plod plod plod!_

Get the Nose! _It __sickens __us, __it __frightens-_

The blank whiteness of its face insistent, it stares, how amusing, its soul swimming pleadingly into its eyes, _foul __jelly!_

_We__ don__'__t__ have __enough__ eyes __for __our__ souls,__ we__'__d __have __to __peer __out __of __our __nostrils, __and __ears, __and_ -

Tom retched violently, a stream of vomit and blood gushing thickly into the black marble pensive that rested placidly upon his desk, and dribbling turgidly from his nostrils.

"_Soberitus_!", a voice that was not his own intoned desperately – even though he was _not_ drunk, hardly, what an ignominious thought, as if he would succumb to such a mundane affliction – but nonetheless, his thoughts sharpened somewhat, his mind gaining a sharper clarity, and accompanying that greater coherence, a deep sense of humiliation throbbed darkly, enraged.

He wanted to cast a _Scourgify_ upon his insides, to _rend_ that foul poison from his body, somebody had dared to, someone had had the _gall_ to taint him.

Yet a quiet voice at the back of his mind pointed out that drunkenness hardly had such an effect upon the body, and in any case, he himself had acquired the champagne.

"My Lord", whispered a voice hoarsely.

Tom's eyes snapped maliciously to the source of the sound, daring the man to comment upon what happened, daring him to ask if he was _well_, and unable to bear the thought of the brat swooping awkwardly through the castle with such a scene lingering in his unworthy, substandard mind, he sliced his wand through the air in an impulsive, bitter movement.

Severus tensed in horror, a patter of words tumbling rapidly from his tongue, "But my Lord, I was successful, I discovered-"

"_Stupefy_", he hissed, crimson tinged eyes flaring.

And then, as the body slackened moistly, he stabbed the tip of his wand against its limp forehead.

"_Obliviate_", he leaned closer, almost lying on the floor next to the unconscious body of his Potions Master. He giggled softly, eerily, and moved so that his lips were pressed intimately against the young man's ear.

"_Legilimens_", he crooned lovingly, and desperately –_ viciously _- he thrust forth a piercing tendril of thought, and lost himself in another man's memories.

_****_**S**

_Knockturn__'__s_ Amorplentia _was__ second__ only __to__ the__ notorious _Mantiwhore_ in __terms__ of__ unbridled __and __decadent __seediness, __its __unabashedly__ glitzy__ exterior __depicting__ all__ sorts __of__ interesting__ scenes__ involving__ broomsticks__ and__ occasionally,__ the__ odd __unicorn.__ Scantily__ clothed__ mannequins__ posed__ provocatively__ in__ the __windows,__ their__ bodies__ disturbingly__ human__ looking,__ but__ for__ the__ absence__ of __facial__ features __-__ their __perfectly__ manicured__ fingers __crooking __invitingly__ to__ the__ eagerly__ gawking __passersby. _

_Beneath__ the__ glowing__ and__ sinuous__ letter-board__ upon__ which__ the__ title__ "__Amorplentia__" __was __displayed,__ shone__ the __witticism__ and__ shameless__ advertisement__ "__Absinthe __makes __the __tart __grow__ fonder__"__._

_Witches clad in ridiculously short and tight robes paraded coquettishly alongside degenerate looking wizards, who puffed corpulently and excitedly through the entrance of the club, greedy looks glinting sleazily in their piggy eyes._

_Needless to say, Severus cut a rather incongruous figure in his richly tailored robes, yet he was here for a purpose other than to get blindingly drunk, and well, ground upon._

_Assuming a lofty and confident demeanour, a glamour flirtatiously affixed to his features - giving him the appearance of a well built youth with a halo of straw-coloured curly hair - Severus strode through the garish entrance, and into the pub._

_Almost immediately, upon sidling past a mass of gyrating, sweating bodies, Severus spied his quarry. The man was splayed upon a chaise lounge, his eyes gazing euphorically yet absently, and his hands roaming vigorously around –_

_Well,__ around __nothing.__ He __seemed__ to __be__ engaging__ in __a__ lewd __sex __act __with _something_, __but __nothing__ or __nobody__ was __there._

_The man began to make sloppy kissing motions, his tongue flapping slimily in the air._

_Severus__ spied __an__ innocuous __pink__ vial__ lurking__ emptily__ upon__ the__ ground__ next__ to__ the__ man,__ its __label __bawdily __advertising,_ "Gilderoy's Fantasies; Well Wanded Wizards and Wild Witches"

_Ah. That explained it. Hallucinogenic potions were all the rage in the lower class areas of Knockturn._

_Severus sidled past a particularly amorous hag, and went to stand beside the man._

_He muttered a quick spell, a Dark charm that was used rather frequently by those who wished to introduce a more realistic bend to their waking dreams, or, in a rather less savoury manner, to take advantage of the person upon whom the spell was cast. It enabled the caster to insinuate themselves into the subject's fantasy, so to speak, seamlessly weaving themselves into the "story"._

_The effect was immediate, the man's hangdog eyes snapping blearily to Severus the moment the last syllable passed his lips, surveying him with a distinctly predatory air._

_Severus attempted to pout seductively, and grasped the man's unresisting arm firmly._

_He assumed a would be smoky, seductive murmur, "I have something for you. Outside."_

_The man's eyes glazed over, and his voice was hoarse when he responded, "Yeah?"_

_How wonderfully coherent._

_Severus smiled tightly, nodded his head sharply as an affirmative, and continuing to clutch the man's limp arm, he steered him through the dimly lit, pulsing interior of the pub and out onto the street. _

_He pulled him roughly towards a narrow, unfrequented backstreet, and then dropped the man's arm brusquely._

_The man peered up at him, a cloud of suspicion drifting hazily through his bloodshot eyes, "'Ere", he said slowly, "Woss going on?"_

_Evidently, the man had developed some resistance to the charm – most likely due to excessive and prolonged abuse of it. Oh well, that meant Severus had no choice but to resort to-_

"Imperio!"

_The man's features slackened into an expression of bland passivity, his eyes glimmering with a faint, exceedingly faint, yellow haze._

"_Come along Mundungus", Severus remarked cruelly, the rush of the Unforgiveable causing the blood to roar and pound headily through his blood vessels, his heart suddenly beating much too fast, and a feeling of elation suffusing his mind._

"_It's time you invited another to complete our little ménage a trois."_

_Mundungus nodded dully, his stance ponderous and heavily relaxed._

**S**

Tom relinquished his grasp upon that particular memory, and probed carelessly for the next sequence of recollections, making no effort to be gentle in his rapid shuffling of images. Mundungus' face swam blankly into view, and rapidly, Tom snatched it, tumbling into the inky blackness and perversion of another's perspective –

_Severus stood behind the hunched figure of Mundungus, his wand pointed unyieldingly at the back of the man's head. They were in a Knockturn tenement, a shack more than a house, with the walls stained the colour of piss and yellowed grass sprouting up through the cracks in the floor._

_Such a charming abode._

_Concentrating intently, Severus compelled Mundungus to write a letter, projecting the gist of what he wanted to be written into Mundungus' mind, but forcing him to write it in his own words._

_It began with, "Wotcher Arfur"_

_The wonderful sense of euphoria induced by using an Unforgiveable was diminishing somewhat, and a vague roil of nausea churned Severus' stomach as his wand continued to emanate the continuous stream of dense yellow mist._

**S**

Tom exhaled roughly, faint beads of perspiration weeping from his forehead. Irritably, he dismissed the sense of nausea clenching his stomach – a parting gift from the last memory he had entered – and prepared to flick through to the final instalment in the memory chain.

_Severus stood awkwardly behind a vanishing bin, his most powerful Disillusionment charm concealing his presence as he skulked in a Diagon backstreet._

_Mundungus was lumped several yards in front of him, immersed in a colossal tent-like robe construction that rendered his body all but swamped within an extensive swathe of cloth. He was waiting to meet "Arfur", the Bloodtraitor Weasley and one of Dumbledore's strongest, most fervent supporters._

_Eventually, Weasley arrived, his Ministry robes an obnoxious purple, clashing violently with his hair._

_Severus' Imperius curse was not as strong as it had been, the yellow vapour having degenerated into nothing several hours before. However, he still could influence Mundungus' mind to the point that the grubby old man could only say something that Severus had no objection to._

"'_Ow's Dumbledore getting on these days anyway – the ole codger 'elped me out several times before, 'ee did. Woss 'ee up ter?"_

_Severus listened with the utmost concentration as Weasley launched into his gossipy diatribe, mentally filtering the salient points from the drivel._

_Once Weasley had disappeared, his bisexual placed safely into his mokeskin, Severus stared coolly at Mundungus, who gazed blandly into the distance, temporarily on autopilot._

_He__ pressed__ his__ wand__ to__ the__ man__'__s __filthy __forehead,__ and__ rapidly__ severing __the__ Imperius __curse,__ he__ then __intoned _"Obliviate_"__,__ deleting __Mundungus__' __memories__ of__ Severus__ –__ or,__ more__ accurately,__ those __of__ the__ young,__ golden__ haired__ man__ – __up__ to__ the__ point__ when __Severus __lured__ him__ outside._

_Then, as Mundungus blinked in a post-Obliviation daze, Severus, still wearing his Disillusionment charm, quietly walked away._

_Just before he reached the main part of Diagon, he ducked into a dark cul de sac, and rapidly cancelled his glamour before dismissing his Disillusionment charm. Then, with a slight weariness affecting his gait, he began to make his way to the Knockturn-Diagon border._

_A slightly smug look squatting upon his face, Severus lurked somewhat tiredly near the entrance to Knockturn Alley. He had long since exchanged his murky travelling cloak for something more dapper from his flat in the depths of Knockturn, but only a glamour could conceal the weariness etched into his visage – and it was considered poor etiquette to apply one in public, unless, of course –_

**S**

With a titanic effort, Tom heaved his mind from the enthralling roil and surge of his – no, the man's, _Severus__ Prince__'__s_ – thoughts, and promptly closed his eyes, still sprawled upon the floor next to the Nose.

One of the most dangerous and most difficult aspects of Legilimency was maintaining one's identity and sanity amidst the hazardous pursuit of assuming another's mindset and viewpoint within the realm of memory.

This was one of the reasons why so few Legilimens existed. Practicing the art involved quite a tremendous risk.

_My name is Tom Marvolo Lord Riddle. My name is Lord Marvolo R-? My name is Lord Tom Voldemort. Tom Marvolo Riddlemort. Tom Marvolo V-_

_Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort._

_Voila. Identity crisis solved._

Tom giggled.

**S**

Muffling his steps with a wandless _Silencio_, Tom stepped reverently into the musty alcoves of Hogwarts' ancient library, bestowing a charming smile upon the recently employed, and relatively young librarian, Madame Pince.

Of course, she wasn't strictly attractive - what with her dated robes, insistence upon wearing those dreadful Muggle contraptions known as "spectacles", and the occasional vindictive pimple pulsing upon her narrow face – but, like Tom, she had an all consuming intensity of passion for books, only matched by her utter disdain for the majority of grubbing humans who pranced, loud mouthed and irreverent, through her musty grove of noiseless words.

You could say that they shared an understanding, and held a kinship of sorts.

Of course, her mild infatuation with Tom eventually facilitated his access to the most restricted of tomes – all for academic _research_ you understand – not that he deliberately manipulated and coerced her romantic whims for such a purpose.

_That__ would __be q__uite_ _immoral_, he thought lightly, trawling rapidly through "_Meallachtai__ Is__ Measa_", a highly illegal Irish text that he had covertly, ah, _borrowed_ from the private repository of books that Dumbledore had collected, apparently deeming them far too dangerous for public circulation.

For his own amusement, he had glamoured the binding to resemble a copy of this week's edition of "_Which__ Witch?_", and reclined elegantly upon the armchair closest to the librarian's desk, with the risqué cover resolutely facing the enamoured Madame.

He caught her tearful eye, threw her a gorgeous smile, and then returned to thumbing through the old Gaelic curses, an expression of profound absorption descending upon his handsome features as a particularly fascinating entry involving the _Tuatha__ de__ Danann_ caught his eye.

Madame Pince blew her nose sonorously, a soggy scrap of yellowed vellum trembling wetly, and meekly, to the floor.

Meanwhile, even as his brilliant (if slightly unhinged) mind dissected the various elements required for an accurate casting of the _Irish __Potato __Curse_, a repetitive litany pounded drum-like beneath the haunting melody of his surface thoughts.

_Dumbledore. Hogshead. Trelawney. Prophecies._

**S**

Dumbledore sat placidly in his high backed wooden chair, his lurid, phoenix patterned robes rather incongruous in the indistinct, murky atmosphere of the Hogshead Inn. His hands were clasped benignly in his lap, and, as formal Pureblood etiquette dictated, both his and his companion's wand were placed upon the table in a demonstration of trust and good faith.

Of course, as Dumbledore had a Master's in wandless magic, the gesture was, well, utterly meaningless.

Nonetheless, the batty old bag sitting opposite him across the table beamed dottily, her eyes enormously magnified by a pair of thick spectacles, and her hair frizzing violently into some peculiar afro construction.

She clutched at her voluminous shawl nervously, her nostrils flaring skittishly as several surly goblins lurking in the corner puffed menacingly at heavy, earthenware pipes.

Dumbledore smiled blandly, before leaning forwards, and deciding to break the stretching silence.

"My dear Miss-"

"Seeress, if you please Headmaster", Trelawney interjected anxiously, chuckling lightly. Her gaze flounced anxiously, roving restlessly around the room

"-_Seeress _Trelawney", Dumbledore amended politely, yet a modicum of irritation momentarily tightened his lips.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and then his expression melted into that of twinkly kindliness once again. The barman sloped sullenly towards them, thrusting two grubby glasses filled with Merlin's Mead upon the mucky surface of their table.

Dumbledore nodded his thanks, and in response the barman grunted roughly, before returning to his position at the counter.

Dumbledore raised his glass, and inclined his head towards Trelawney. "Rebirth", he murmured reverentially, and clinked his glass against Trelawney's. She looked slightly bemused by the unorthodox phrase – it was the slogan of the Order of the Phoenix political party afterall - but she echoed the word nonetheless.

"Rebirth", she whispered mystically, deliberately widening her eyes, and gulping the mead inelegantly.

"Quite, quite", Dumbledore said amicably, taking a tentative sip, and then placing his glass aside. "Now that our throats have been moistened, and our tongues well lubricated, I suggest that we are now sufficiently fortified for several hours of chit chat, and thus, well prepared for our interview concerning the position of Professor of Divination at the notable school of Hogwarts"

Trelawney nodded dumbly, slightly bewildered by the convoluted sentence, and took an invigorating swallow of mead.

Dumbledore fixed the prospective Professor with an intent look, and frowned thoughtfully.

"Tell me about a banana", he said austerely, his face grimly expectant.

Trelawney gazed at him solemnly. "Well", she began earnestly, "according to Simian Taysts, the banana is universally acknowledged within temporal-"

Meanwhile, as Trelawney expounded eruditely upon the banana, and Dumbledore interjected with a few minor points of his own, a figure swathed in an inky cloak, with a wide hood concealing his features, assiduously began to eavesdrop.

Of course, the slight problem with the clandestine practice of eavesdropping upon the conversation, was that it was rather difficult to observe the actual interactions, and as such, the eavesdropper did not notice the faint yellow taint to the woman's eyes, nor the decidedly golden timbre of the mead.

Also, when the prophecy took place, the woman's voice rasping melodramatically in the murky confines of the room, the eavesdropper attributed the increasing monotony of tone to the trance.

Which was a perfectly feasible explanation, was it not?

Unfortunately, Dumbledore's triumphant smirk as his wards informed him of the intruding listening spell, was also an entirely soundless affair.

**S**

**Daily Prophet Headline October 31st 1981: **

**WNP DISCREDITED AS PARAMILITARY SYMPATHISERS THE "DEATH EATERS" HIT OOTP PARTY SUPPORTERS; THE POTTERS**

**HARRY POTTER SURVIVES AK CURSE**


End file.
